


Life Begins

by LMX



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Community: avengerkink, M/M, Memory Alteration, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Permanent Injury, Post-Avengers (2012), Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMX/pseuds/LMX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When a high level SHIELD agent experiences a career-ending injury, they're given two choices for retirement. Option one, they're put into a kind of witness protection, where they can never again speak to anyone they knew before, or option two, their memories are completely wiped and they're given a new life.</i>
</p>
<p>Clint and Phil, post-retirement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Avengerkink fill (http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/12672.html?thread=28527488#t28527488). Summary paraphrased from the original prompt.

Director Nick Fury threw the report down on the table between them in an effort to deny its existence, resisting the urge to stand and loom. "Doc, it's only been six months."

"No, Nick," Doctor Kaja Brzycki of SHIELD Retirement Services (Neurosciences Department) lent forwards in her chair, putting her point across as clearly as she could in the face of the Director's denials. "It's been a whole twelve months. The last surgery took well, he's feeling stronger and more independent, he settled into a new house, he even seems to like the new physio he's been placed with. He's thought about work and looked briefly into a couple of hobbies he used to enjoy. He's been through all the hyperactive and overeating and undereating stages of retirement I'd expect to see in someone retiring from a job as active as the one he's come out of. The only thing he's not doing is seeking out a social group, making interpersonal connections. He's behaving more like a widower than anything else, and I know the running joke was that he was married to his work, but... I'm worried about depression."

"You've got to be kidding." Fury's voice had softened - in as much as it ever did - gone more regretful than reluctant to accept the truth.

"Sir... I'll do all I can, I've already had Agent Symms encourage a return to more frequent face-to-face sessions, but aside from his physical therapist and our planted psychologist, I don't think he's spoken to another human in months."

"He was never a very sociable person. Always spending too much time at work."

"Have you thought any more about your own retirement sir?" the Doctor asked, with a shadow of a grin. This was an old question, long recalled between them. "I notice your retirement file has been reopened with neurosciences."

"Don't get excited, Kaja. It's just paperwork."

"You know I can't wait to get hold of your brain, sir," she teased, gathering up the paperwork she'd brought with her. Hiding the photograph of Phil Coulson under a cover stamped with 'Classified Level 7' and headed with the Retirement Services logo.

"Get out of my office, you banshee," Fury growled in reply. He waited until she was at the door before calling; "Kaja..." She stopped and looked back. "Let me know if anything changes."

-

_Retirement at SHIELD above level five (the level where you started to learn about the really freaky shit that SHIELD was in to), was a cut and dried affair. You got two options, and while you were free to switch at any point up to your retirement (whether scheduled or medically-enforced) once the final paperwork was signed, the actual event was carried out without much consultation with you._

_The first option was complete removal from the service of SHIELD, to include a broad-base mind-wipe of any confidential information and complete isolation from any SHIELD affairs and continuing or retired SHIELD Agents. You would be monitored closely to ensure you avoided all things SHIELD related (the irony of putting an active Agent in proximity to a retired Agent to ensure that they were not interacting with any Agents was not missed by anyone) and risked incarceration or more severe mind-wipe if this edict was broken._

_The second option was the new-life program. Neurosciences took SHIELD out of your brain entirely, and replaced it by something drawn up by Psych to best fit your experiences and life outlook. Most Agents who chose option two had something vague drawn up in collaboration with Psych before hand, something that fit with their dreams and ambitions before SHIELD had become their lives. (It was well known that Psych tended to use those interactions to fuel their psychoanalyses as much as anything else)._

_There was no waiting period, no leaving party or cake. The day an Agent was retired, they disappeared into Neurosciences and SHIELD personnel never saw them again._

_At least... most personnel. When you hit level seven... well, lots of things changed._

-

Agent Jasper Sitwell dropped into a chair opposite Acting-Director Hill, tipping his chair back in clear defiance of the Cafeteria's rules. "I checked on Phil, while I was in Portland," he said quietly, knowing the volume of the room would obscure his words. There was a good ring of empty tables around Hill's corner seat. "Just a walk-by, you know."

"And?" Hill said blandly, not looking up from the pad she held.

Jasper poked at his desert, not entirely sure what he'd picked. "I'm worried," he said without taking a bite. "Have you talked to his settling-in team? He wasn't looking at his surroundings at all, and he looked... ill."

Hill glanced up, her eyes narrowed. "He got stabbed through the chest, Jasper. Maybe he's caught a cold and it's knocked him for six, you can't deduce anything from a walk-by."

-

_For a lot of SHIELD it was as hard losing a friend to retirement as to death. Some suggested it was harder - because at least in death there was a funeral, a grave to visit. In retirement you might be investigated if you so much as spoke about wanting to visit with an old colleague._

_Maybe Phil's friends had been lucky - most of them didn't even realise he'd lived to retire. When he was spoken about it was still as a man who had given his life in a battle against a rampaging God of Chaos. He had a funeral. A grave to be tended._

_It didn't make it any easier for the friends who knew better._

-

"You saw Phil, didn't you." Jasper all but fell into the chair opposite Hill's desk. It was already in the process of being boxed up for the move into the Director's office, just her lamp and a laptop left, along with the file from Retirement Services.

"I wasn't in the area," Hill denied. "The op was in South East Asia..."

"Maria, don't..." he interrupted. "We've known each other for too long to..."

"I've spoken to his team," she sighed, dropping into her own chair and pushing the lone file across her desk towards the other Agent. "He's fighting off depression. No social group, no incidental interactions, his situational awareness is... They're worried. Fury knew, but there isn't much any of us can do."

-

_Especially in the case of medical retirements, the requirement for fast action on the part of neurosciences was essential. The trauma of an injury seared details into the mind; scents, images, sounds. The implanted memories had to be designed around the trauma to allow the mind to accept the change. It meant there was never any time in between the injury and the retirement._

_No time to ask; are you sure? Or; what's changed about this template since last time you talked to us? Even; any last requests?_

-

"Director... Sir." Hill was finding it harder to put Fury on a pedestal these days, when she was taking over his duties in advance of his retirement and learning every terrifying secret about SHIELD that she'd never wanted to know. "You know where Barton stands on retirement."

Fury forced himself to look up from the white-walled hospital room, to meet Hill's hard gaze. "I do. God knows how I'm going to explain it to the Avengers, but the neurosciences team have already been called in. Psych are working on modifying his template."

"We should set him up near Phil," Hill said firmly, not prone to beating around the bush. "They knew each other. They won't recognise one another, but if we can engineer a social interaction..."

Fury shook his head. "You think we haven't tried social engineering?" he asked, his tone sharp. "Phil's struggling, Maria, but Clint's retirement plan is Florida."

"He won't know any better, and if it doesn't work we've not hurt either of them."

"That's not a great moral stance, Director Hill," Fury glowered back.

"Clint would want to help Phil."

"Clint God-damned Barton wants to help every soul he sets his eyes on," Fury stepped forward, pointing aggressively towards the door leading through to surgery. "That's why he's in there right now with half a dozen surgeons trying to reconstruct his shoulder."

"This could help them both, Nick," Hill said, trying to soften her voice and knowing almost immediately that she shouldn't have tried such an obvious tactic.

"Not if Barton breaks the way Psych says he will, and throws himself from something high." Fury sighed, sagging as if he had run out of energy. He'd been so close to retirement, why couldn't Barton have held off on his self-sacrifice for just a few months? "They're going to have to clear a neural path big enough to save him, and that's a hell of a lot of a life to lose to creative reprogramming, even if they do manage to save his arm."

"Phil's talked him down from ledges before."

"I just don't want this to end with both of them up there together."

-

The both of them, in different but equally stylishly decorated rooms with the same mounted certificate on the wall, say; "I've met someone."

Sitting across from Phil, one highly qualified and very skilled therapist raised an eyebrow over the top of his glasses and asked; "Did you meet them and interact with them? Because if you did then that's progress, but if you walked away again then I'm not putting any gold stars on your chart." This would be Phil's opportunity to express exactly how much he hated the chart, and the whole concept of earning gold stars. (His chart doesn't have many stars on it, of any colour)

Instead he said; "I felt like such a fool - I walked right into him." It's a change, and his therapist looks down at his notebook, concealing a grin.

Clint twitched nervously in his seat, still not at ease here. "So there I was in the middle of the street, completely lost, maybe having a bit of an attack," he stopped, at this admission, and forced himself to take a calming breath. His therapist smiled and nodded approvingly. "And I turn around and knocked this guy right over. I didn't mean to, don't laugh at me, what kind of shrink are you?"

"He spilled his coffee everywhere," Phil admitted, "I had to offer to buy him another."

"He took it as his fault," Clint said, visibly mortified, "And offered to buy me another coffee. I managed to convince him I was just clumsy." His hand gripped briefly around his immobile arm - not long enough or hard enough to bruise, he didn't need to do that any more. "But he insisted," he continued after a beat, "So I said I'd buy him one and we'd be even."

Phil sat back in his chair, realising he'd lent forwards in telling the story, trying to look disaffected. "We talked for ages - he was Army too, early retirement on medical grounds. We have a lot in common. It was getting dark when we left."

"It was... comfortable." Clint eased back in his seat, itchy energy settling in the remembrance of that comfort. "He was comfortable to be with. It seems like years since I've talked that much." He stopped to muse for a moment, adding; "He used a cane. I didn't ask."

"There was something with his right arm..." Phil's therapist looked up in interest - this was a development. Phil could drift through a conversation without needing to say more than a dozen words, but noticing his surroundings and more importantly the people in them was a positive change. "He didn't use it at all. I honestly wouldn't have noticed if the cashier hadn't tried to hand him two things at once." And acknowledging his own lack of attention, this was a day for the books.

"It wasn't his legs, though," Clint's brow had furrowed, his tone gone distant. "Even gait, no limp. He walked slowly, but acted like it frustrated him, so it's relatively recent. He was pale, maybe a little blue in the lips, medi-alert bracelet - something..."

"Clint," his therapist interrupted his slowly accelerating monologue. "Are you having hyper-awareness issues again?"

He looked up, his expression distant for a moment. "Hmm...? No. Not... maybe?" he shrugged one shoulder, his gaze already sharpening "I don't think I acted too crazy with him, though. He asked me to dinner."

Phil folded his hands in his lap, hiding his excitement. "We're meeting tomorrow. Italian."

-

Hill looked penitent as the screen loaded. "Sir, I know you're not in today, but..."

"Hill," Fury interrupted. "When you asked me to consult before my retirement, I was expecting more than two hours a week."

"Yes, sir," Hill replied with the vaguest hint of a sigh. "And I know you've been in contact with HQ daily, but we haven't needed..."

"I'm bored, Hill," he interrupted again. He wasn't going to make this transition any easier for Hill than he had to.

"Of course, sir. You're retiring," Hill replied, voice flat.

"Thank you, Director Hill."

"I called because two other retired friends seem to be engaged in continuing interactions," she said, letting a smile creep in.

"If you mean Romanoff's Hawk-stalking, we've..."

She interrupted him almost immediately. "No, sir. In fact, we may be in a position to bring her back on board as early as next year."

Fury let that sink in, kindling a tiny bit of hope. "If Romanoff's decided that Barton doesn't need her supervision anymore..."

"He has a dinner date with Coulson," Hill offered.

"Well damn," Fury said, unable to keep the grin from his face.

-

"This is such a good game," Clint drawled, as Phil hid his head in his hands, trying not to laugh so loud as to draw attention to their corner of the cafe. "And you're so bad at it."

"I can't compete against your eyesight," Phil objected, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Oh, here come the excuses." Clint scanned the busy shop, windows steaming against the cold winter air. From their corner seats they had the best view of the place, it was their favourite table. "Alright then - the two lovely ladies by the door."

"The red head and the brunette?" Phil took his time studying the two women. "I'm thinking best friends."

"Not life partners?" Clint snarked.

"No, not enough eye contact, no physical affection. They bought their own drinks."

Clint took a long look, glad the women were engaged enough in their conversation not to notice their attention. "I think they work together. Somewhere tough - the brunette looks like she might have been forces, and the red head just looks... scary."

"Work colleagues? Not even friends?"

"The brunette's the red head's boss." Phil shot Clint a raised eyebrow and he put a hand up in defence. "Hey now, none of that."

"Okay, this one I've got." Phil grinned as a new customer walked through the door, making the bell chime. "Retired officer - Army."

"Do you know him?" Clint took the time to study the tall black guy with the rocking eye-patch as he took in the whole of the shop and its clientèle in turn. It was a very assessing gaze, lingering on the exits and hesitating briefly on Clint and Phil, then again on the two ladies by the door. Clint knew without having to check again that they were the only two tables he would have included in a tactical assessment, and had to agree with Phil's suspicions.

"No, just the glazed look," Phil replied, his grin audible.

"And the boots," Clint acknowledged quietly and then sat forwards in his chair to call; "Sir."

The officer's stare jumped to them and he scanned the shop again, as if to make sure that Clint wasn't addressing someone behind him. He picked up his cup from the counter after thanking the server and walked over to their table. "Have we met?"

"No, sir. But we recognised the stance." Clint gestured around the cafe. "There's no seats, you'd be welcome to join us?"

"Thank you... Uh..." he looked around himself and then took the seat that Clint kicked out towards him. "Nick Fury, US Army, Colonel, retired." He looked baffled as Clint shook the offered right hand with his left.

"It's alright, sir," Clint said, "You don't have to give us your serial."

Fury grinned wryly. "You're retired forces, right? The both of you."

"Yes sir," Phil took over, his voice gentle. "Major Phil Coulson, Rangers, and Sergeant Clint Barton, Green Berets. Something tells me you've not been out for long?"

"I got home last week, been sitting in my empty apartment dreaming of the damned barracks for how quiet it is. God-damned longest week of my life."

"Colonel Fury, you're going to fit right in here."

From the seats by the door, Agent Natasha Romanoff and Director Hill shared a smile and stood, leaving behind their coffees and three of SHIELD's best.


End file.
